


The Plain Black Volume

by Lyledebeast



Series: Margaret and John [1]
Category: North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell | UK TV
Genre: F/M, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Humor, Marriage, Masturbation, Premature Ejaculation, Wedding Night, victorian sex ed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 16:31:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8453581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyledebeast/pseuds/Lyledebeast
Summary: Hannah Thornton gives Margaret a book to help her prepare for her wedding night.  Margaret has a lot of questions.  John has a lot of feelings.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I feel I should say at the outset, there are historical anachronisms in this fic. The whole premise of there being a book for housewives that includes explicit descriptions of sexual organs and acts is highly un-Victorian. But! I thought it would be even more awkward for chilly Hannah Thornton to sit down with Margaret and say, "this is how it works." So, I've sacrificed historical accuracy to character integrity. Please forgive me, grad school Victorianist professors!

Fanny had accompanied Margaret for the final fitting of her wedding gown, leaving Hannah the parlor to herself.  It was just as she wanted it; gowns were Fanny’s bread and butter, and it would give her a chance to spend time with her future sister.  Provided Margaret could stand her.  She was certain that, even this close to the wedding, Fanny would plead for more elaborate adornments.  Her wedding gown had been so ornate that even usually stoic John’s brow had furrowed at the sight of the bill.

It was, Hannah had to admit, a relief that Margaret had turned out to be so simple and practical in her tastes. She was not the fine Southern lady she had expected, and Hannah was pleasantly surprised by the simple muslin gown she had chosen.  It had not been the only thing about her future daughter in law that had surprised her.

Nothing in her encounter with Margaret in the empty factory had led her to believe the young woman would return to Milton so quickly, and engaged to her son on top of that.  At first, she had been suspicious, but how could she say as much in the face of Margaret’s indisputable generosity? Still, the fact remained that she had a chance with John before and wanted nothing to do with him, and it was no easy matter for Hannah to convince herself that she wasn’t going through with the marriage just to crow over him after all.

What had done it was seeing her son so much happier, not only since before the ordeal of losing his life’s work, but since he was a child.  His eyes lit up whenever Margaret entered the room, and when she spoke he listened so intently, as though afraid to miss a single word. He had spent the past month in a state of perpetual awe and disbelief that she wanted not only to help him, but to share a life with him as well. God knew he had been given little enough chance at happiness so far, forced into his father’s shoes at such an early age.  Hannah would do anything to make sure he got the chance he deserved now.

And she knew that helping him also meant helping Margaret. Of course the young woman missed her mother deeply, but she had to wonder how much guidance the late Mrs. Hale had given her about matrimonial matters.  For the little she had seen of the aunt, she hoped her influence on Margaret’s education had been minimal.  But there were things a young bride needed to know, and she felt it incumbent on her to see that she knew them.

She put down her teacup and stepped closer to the bookshelf.  Within a few seconds she found the large, plain black volume she was seeking and pulled it down.  It had not been in her hand for many years, and the weight surprised her so much that she almost dropped it.  A glance at the front cover brought back anxious memories.  It was a book describing treatments for common ailments, and it had saved her having to call for the doctor many times when Fanny was still a child and they had been surviving on John’s income from the draper’s shop.  She sat down and opened the book on her lap. Naturally, the most well-worn pages were those describing various childhood illnesses and at home cures, but Hannah thought she remembered a surprisingly detailed account of healthy congress between a husband and wife.  After a few minutes of perusing, she found it.  It was as she remembered; specific enough to let Margaret know what to expect, and yet not vulgar.  Apart from the illustrations, that was: one of a man and one of a women, both unclothed, with labels for the assorted parts that made up the difference between the sexes. But even that was a necessary evil, and would no doubt prove beneficial.

Hannah sat the volume next to her with a sigh.  She had discovered it too late to help her with her own wedding night.  Her mother had told her nothing of what to expect; she was a quiet, distant woman who had left her children to learn many lessons in life by themselves.  She had been nervous and frightened, and her young husband not much better.  He had no prior experience of carnal relations, just as she was certain John had not.  If he caused Margaret as much pain and confusion as she herself had experienced, it was certain to cause him no end of dismay.  He doted on her, and it would mean so much to him to please her. Or, at least, for her not to shrink from him.  But from what she knew of Margaret, she did not seem the type likely to shrink.

She would offer the book to her covertly, with a general sense of its merits.  She had tried a more direct approach with Fanny just before her wedding and been rebuffed.  “Oh, Mama,” she had said glibly, “no girl nowadays gets such advice from her _mother_. I’m sure Watson will tell me everything I need to know.”

Hannah thought that was extremely unlikely, but what could she say? She and Fanny had never been close either; they had never really understood each other.  She could hardly claim to be close to Margaret either, but she hoped the young woman knew that that she meant well.  Hopefully, her gift of the book would be taken in that light.

* * *

Margaret found it difficult to fall asleep that night; Edith had told her to expect feelings of anxiety and even fear leading up to the wedding, but that didn’t accurately describe what she was feeling.  She couldn’t quite name this sensation to her satisfaction, but it felt most like curiosity.

Her mother had never told her anything about what to expect on her wedding night, and Edith had been less helpful than she had hoped.  She only told her that she had known little enough about what to expect herself, but that once she did, carrying out her “marital duties,” as she had put it in her letter, had gotten easier.  Margaret frowned at the thought.  Her cousin had made it sound like learning to keep accounts of household expenses.

She got out of bed, finding her way to the door in the darkness with her candle in hand. Lighting it from one of the tapers in the hallway, she made her way quietly down to the parlor where Mrs.  Thornton had pointed out the book to her.  She still couldn’t bring herself to call her future mother in law anything else, not even in her head.  Under normal circumstances, the difficulty would make her feel guilty, but she suspected that the older woman enjoyed it.  Not out of any sense of superiority, really, but because she seemed to be the kind of person who scorned superficial intimacy.  It did not seem right to use her first name, even though she had been living in her house since her betrothal to John.  She would call her Hannah when it felt right.

There had been no such hesitation with Fanny, chiefly because John’s sister refused to allow it. She was quite jovial, almost giddy, with Margaret, but in a way that suggested a performance.  Try as she might, she could not get past the feeling that Fanny talked about her very differently when she was not present.  Perhaps it was resentment at Margaret’s sudden acquisition of wealth of her own, wealth that had allowed her to marry for love.  Not that Fanny, she was sure, minded marrying a rich man, but she was not certain that Fanny was perfectly happy. But it was unlikely enough that her sister-in-law would ever confide in her.

When she entered the parlor and lit the candle by the table, she quickly located the volume Mrs. Thornton had mentioned.  Sitting down, she lifted it onto her lap.  She recalled how the weight of it had surprised her at first.  Not as surprising, though, as the fact that the stern woman had suggested that she read it.  She had told Margaret earlier that it was the book she had diagnose her children’s various illnesses after her husband’s death.  While Margaret could certainly see how that might be useful to her and John in the future, that didn’t explain what she could only describe as Mrs. Thornton’s eagerness for her to read it soon.  She and John weren’t even married yet! And yet a small voice in the back of her mind suggested that maybe the suggestion had nothing to do with children, that perhaps it did contain information that would be useful much sooner.  Deciding that she had nothing to lose, she began turning through the pages.

The book was a fount of information, not only about illnesses but about how to recognize the correct workings of the human body.  Many topics caught her interest, but she took note of them and moved on.  None seemed to be exactly what she needed, what she became more certain with each chapter she glanced through that her future and mother in law wanted her to see. Then she arrived at the two pages.  On one was a diagram of a female body; on the other, a male.  Most of the parts labelled were words she had never seen before, but at least for the female one she knew what some of them referred to.  The male, however, was a complete mystery to her, and that increased her fascination. 

She examined the picture until her cheeks began to burn with embarrassment.  She felt as though she were prying, looking at something not meant for her eyes with prurient intent.  But she chided herself for the embarrassment. She would be seeing the real thing tomorrow night, or at least touching it.  The thought filled her with both anxiety and a strange kind of excitement.  She knew John to be a good man: intelligent and just, even compassionate.  That had not been clear to her at first, but she had come to understand and appreciate his nature, for all its being different from her own, and to love him for it.  And she could see clearly how much he loved her in turn. But there was yet another feeling she had towards him that she couldn’t quite name.  She could remember some small flicker of it when she first set eyes on him at the mill, and it had nearly overwhelmed her when she saw him at the train station with his collar open.  Never before or since had she seen so much of his skin, and she trembled a little even at the memory.

He had only kissed her a few times after that one reckless incident at the train station, but each had carried with it a gentler, more bearable version of the original feeling.  They had both been too caught up in the sudden flush of heat between them to be fully aware of what they were doing in the moment, but embarrassment had stolen over her later, and she could see the same in the color that arose on John’s pale cheeks once they had boarded the train.  Thank goodness his mother and Fanny weren’t there to see them! Or her Aunt Shaw! It made her smile now to think of the lecture she had avoided.

A glance at the candle jolted her from her reverie when she saw how much it had burned down.  She would have to read faster if she was to get all she needed before she was left in total darkness.  On the next page, she spotted the heading “Normal Intercourse.” It contained the first truly troubling information she had read; she’d had no idea that _that_ was what husbands and wives did together.  No wonder Edith had refused to be explicit. Turning back to the diagrams on the previous, she scrutinized them with a new sense of urgency.  Perhaps that male part was not actually too big to fit there, but then she considered how much larger John was than herself.  Presumably . . . it hardly bore thinking about.  After she sat the book back in its place, trying to make sure it was exactly as she had found it, and made her way back to her room, she began to worry about what was to come. 

But just as panic began to quicken her heartbeat, she passed the hallway that led to John’s room, and she thought of him lying there.  Was he asleep, or was he wide awake with excitement and apprehension like herself?  Tomorrow at this time, she would be there with him; the thought no longer carried the anxiety it had a moment before. She was certain of one thing: John would never hurt her.  It was up to her to be brave, to be honest and fair as she had always tried to be.  After all, that had always served her well where John was concerned.

*** * ***

John rolled onto his back underneath the covers, looking up at the ceiling in frustration.  He had faced the same struggle every night since Margaret had come to live under his roof, but he had always been able to find sleep before just by ignoring the source of the problem. Tonight, though, he couldn’t stop thinking—with some concern, if he were honest—about what awaited him the coming night.  It increased his anxiety, but unfortunately did nothing to help the uncomfortable ache between his legs.

During the day, finding Margaret at the dinner table or in the parlor having tea with his mother was like a dream.  He still could not entirely believe that she had consented to be his, but her presence confirmed it daily.  And she seemed to be happy.  After the initial flush of excitement at the train station, he had begun to worry about his mother.  Had she not said that she hated Margaret for refusing his first proposal? But he hoped now that she had simply spoken out of anger then.  She had been kind to Margaret throughout their brief engagement, doing all she could to help the young woman feel at home.  He suspected his mother was surprised about how easy it had been.  Their only real disagreement had been about inviting the Higginses to the wedding.  His mother had been hesitant about inviting an agitator, but with his assistance, Margaret had prevailed. Nicholas and Mary were to be seated with Margaret’s cousins, and that arrangement had satisfied his mother.  She was not to be the main source of trouble.  No, that role would be occupied by himself, it seemed, regardless of his best intentions.

He had nothing but the highest opinion of the woman who was to be his wife, and he was certain that nothing could pain him more than the thought that he might hurt, or even frighten her.  But he had gleaned from some of the less savory conversation among other businessmen that the wedding night often resulted in both for the unfortunate wives.  At the time, it had been their callousness that bothered him most, but now he wondered if it were true. Was it inevitable for men to hurt their wives on the wedding night, when the women were surely at their most vulnerable?

It seemed unlikely that Margaret would be afraid for herself.  After the way she had defended him from the rioters, he could well believe that she feared nothing. But he couldn’t imagine her knowing anything about what to expect either.  He himself had only the most basic idea.  Even at the drapers’ shop he had heard other boys brag about their dalliances with girls.  He doubted the truth of most of their stories, but they were certainly graphic enough for certain details to play a role in his nocturnal imaginings.  By the time he had to go to work, he had sufficient education to equip him with a basic understanding of male anatomy, but most of he knew about women’s bodies had come from a certain book, a plain black volume, that his mother kept in her parlor.  In recent years he had come to remember his prurience with some shame, but it had been quite illuminating to him as a schoolboy who was just beginning to develop an interest in sex.

Of course, he had also had the more formal education from his schoolmaster, but unlike the book he had skimmed in secret, that had come with heavy proscriptions.  “Pleasure before marriage is selfish, reckless, and unhealthy,” the man had said.  It would lead to all kinds of maladies, and it wasted energy.  That was the last word he had been given on the subject, and it had stayed with him during all the intervening years.  If there was one thing he certainly could not afford to do, it was to waste energy.  He had only failed a few times, and the brief moments of pleasure it had given him had hardly been worth the crushing guilt that followed.  And now, the thought of sanctioned pleasure was almost incomprehensible.  To his mind, at any rate; part of him seemed to have no trouble comprehending it at all.

John lay a hand on his belly over his nightshirt, and even that slight motion was enough to further aggravate the sensitive flesh beneath. “Wait,” he told himself through gritted teeth.  This was the last night he would have to sleep alone, he reminded himself.  Hopefully, for the rest of his life.  As happy as the thought made him, it did not provide the deterrent he had hoped for.  It was also the last night that he would have a chance to touch himself like this, without having to worry about distressing her.  The thought was enough to move his hand down to his hip; this time he gasped as the light cotton slid over the tip of his erection. He was just bending his knees, about to lift the hem of his shirt, when he thought he heard the sound of footsteps outside and froze, his heart pounding.  “It could be mother,” he considered.  She sometimes complained of having difficulty sleeping, but something convinced him that it had to be Margaret. Who could have more reason for sleeping poorly than a woman whose life was about to change so dramatically?

He felt a wave of shame wash over him; if he couldn’t even control himself when he was alone, how could he when she was with him? Again, it was not a deterring thought; strong as his guilt was, his arousal was stronger.  After listening carefully for a moment to make sure that whoever he had heard had gone on her way, he withdrew his hand and rolled onto his belly, biting back a moan when his erection rubbed against the mattress.  A technicality, perhaps, but he had always felt a bit less responsible when he found release this way.  It _could_ have been an accident, something that had happened while he was asleep, and over which he had no control.  Soon, he was beyond such rationalization; he could think only of Margaret in his bed, touching him with her hands, and letting him touch her.  Within only had handful of thrusts, he was biting his pillow to hold back his cry and clutching the sheets in his hands as he reached his climax. 

Still panting, he rolled onto his back, grimacing at the wetness that made his shirt stick to his belly.  He threw back the covers and got out of bed, stripping the shirt off and using it to wipe himself clean.  “Poor Margaret,” he thought to himself; she had little enough idea of the base, undisciplined man she was going to wed.  But she would help him to become better; indeed, she already had. 

John tried not to feel guilty about what he had done; it was, after all, to be the last time.  And if it was a sin, at least it was one that would help him find the sleep that had evaded him all night.  By the time he crawled under the covers again, his eyelids were growing heavy, and he drifted off with the thought of Margaret in his arms, his hand on her belly and her back pressing against his chest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there actually is no "deflowering" in the traditional sense in this chapter. There are a few reasons for this, laziness probably among them, and a deep dislike of sex scenes where penetration is the only act that has real meaning. But mostly, I just don't think either Margaret or John would want to put pressure on each other to "perform" something neither of them have done before right away. Of course, they will consummate their marriage soon, and grow more and more in knowledge and love. But that's a different fic.

Margaret’s heart pounded in her chest as she changed into her nightgown.  She was in the room in which she had slept since her return to Milton, and the thought that she would never sleep there again was a sobering one.  Every night from now on, she would change in John’s bedroom, which was now to be hers as well.  She felt her hands shake with apprehension as she combed her fingers through her long, unbound hair.

The wedding had been simple but beautiful, and it was a delight to see so many people who cared for her and for whom she cared together in one place. Her Aunt Shaw had been travelling, as expected, but Edith had come, bringing her husband and baby.  To Margaret’s pleasant surprise, even Henry Lennox had come to pay his respects.  It was a relief to know that, though disappointed, he did not despise her for her choice.

After the deaths of her parents, so near in occurrence, she hadn’t been sure if she would feel so content and confident in the people around her. Just a year earlier, she had known so few of these people.  How her life had changed since then.  She was only able to speak to Nicholas and Mary for a moment, but it was long enough to them to show, in their own way, how happy they were for her.

“I don’t suppose we’ll be seeing so much of you, now you’ve become the master’s master,” Nicholas had said, speaking in a low voice, just loudly enough to catch John’s attention as he gave his familiar wry smirk. It widened the smile on her own lips.

“That’s ridiculous, as you well know,” she replied.  “If anything, you’ll see more of me than before.  I’m part owner of the mill now, you understand.  I trust my husband to run it as well as he always has, but there is much for me to learn, and how am I to do that by staying at home?  Rest assured, Nicholas.  You will see me every day.” His smirk widened into a smile and he gave her a nod.

“Congratulations, Miss . . . I mean . . . Mrs. Thornton. It was lovely,”  Mary said softly as Margaret turned her attention to her.  “I only wish that Betsy could have seen,” she added in a lower tone, dropping her eyes. Margaret leaned forward to press a kiss to the girl’s cheek, feeling a tear well up in her own eye at the memory of her friend.  “So do I, Mary.  So do I.  But I’m so glad that the both of you were able to come.” Promising to pay a visit soon, Margaret watched as the father and daughter walked away, arm in arm.

It had been an exhausting day, for all the delight it had brought.  Now, it seemed a blur of conversation, music, and food; if she were honest, she was glad it was over.  To spend more time with her friends would have been sweet, but she was both eager and anxious to see what beginning a new life with John really meant.

“It’s only he that I have to please,” she reminded herself as she looked at her reflection in the mirror.  “Surely I can manage that.” She recalled the brief conversation she had had with the elder Mrs. Thornton just before retiring to the guest room to change for bed.  She had expressed her wish for her mother in law’s approval in more explicit terms than before, and the reply she got surprised her, though not displeasingly.  “Please, do not put yourself to any worry on my account Miss . . . Margaret,” Hannah had said, apparently finding the old habit as hard to break as Margaret herself did.  “I know I’ve been . . . aloof, perhaps.  It’s my nature; you mustn’t take offense at it.  I know that my son loves you, and I believe you love him.  Just . . . be kind to him, Margaret.  He wants to please you so.  That is all you ever need do to be assured of my approval.”

She could well believe it, and the thought gave her strength as she made her way down the hall.  Pausing in front of John’s door, she did her best to compose herself before gently knocking on the door.  She had been nervous about appearing before John in such a state of undress, but her first sight of him as he invited her in drove all such thoughts from her mind.  How could she think about what her long, high collared nightgown would reveal when he was lying there, the thin cotton shirt open from the notch of his collarbone all the way down to the center of his chest. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the pale skin, and as she drew closer, she could see that further down his chest was lightly covered with dark hairs.  She wondered what it would feel like to touch him there.

“Margaret, I . . . “ he began suddenly, and she noticed that his voice shaking.  He was as nervous as she was! She looked up, meeting his gaze.  Somehow in the soft, flickering light from the candle, his eyes looked darker than they ever had before.

“I . . . you look so beautiful,” her murmured.

“Thank you . . . I . . . so do you,” she blurted, feeling her skin grow hot with embarrassment.  He had been telling her that from the moment he saw her at the church; there was no reason for her to be so flustered by a compliment. But then, he had been wearing more at the time.

She had dropped her eyes in embarrassment, but when she looked at him again, she saw that his cheeks had grown pink as well.  Breathing a sigh of relief, she walked towards him, keeping her eyes on the space on the bed next to him to keep her nerves calm. Her cheeks warmed for a different reason when John took her hand and lifted it to his lips.

“Lie down with me . . . darling?” he murmured softly, hesitantly, as though he wasn’t sure how the endearment would be received.

She squeezed his hand gently, hoping to reassure him before she released it to gather up the loose material of her gown to climb onto the bed.  As she adjusted the covers over herself, she felt how different it was to be close to him like this.  Before, when she had touched him, they had both been standing or sitting, the height different between them obvious.  But now, when she was sitting up with her back against the pillow, and he was stretched out on his back, she could see him as never before.  Somehow, he looked younger as well as smaller when she looked down at him this way; far less intimidating this way.

“Do you remember when we first saw each other, John?” she asked, lifting the hand nearest him to stroke the back of his neck.

She felt him stiffen lightly and stilled her hand.  He looked down, frowning.  “I do.  Of course, I regret it now.  You looked so frightened, but so angry too.  I . . . I wish I had given a better impression.  But how was I to . . .?”

“I know, love,” she interjected, beginning to brush a single finger up the curve of his neck to his hairline, and back down again, feeling his light shudder.  “I’m not talking about  . . . about Mr. Stephens, though.  Before all that.  You looked so proud, surveying your workers.  So fine, and so different from what I expected.  I had . . . all southern girls have, certain ideas about what . . . manufacturers look like.  And you shattered them all.”

He looked up at her, his face softening when he saw her smile.  “And you must have thought, ‘who is this nuisance of a woman, and why is she meddling in my mill?’” she added with a playful squeeze of his shoulder.

“Even if that were true,” he replied with a bashful smile of his own, “which I certainly do not admit, I’ve learned the error of my ways since.”

She had to laugh at that.  “Yes, I can see how you’ve learned.  Now, you have me to meddle in every aspect of your life, from now on.”

His face grew serious once more, and Margaret felt her heart drop.  Had she made too light of it?

“Do you promise?” he asked.

The seriousness in his voice was almost heartbreaking.  As she had gotten to know him better, she had seen how much the sadness of his early life had stayed with him, how often it seemed to him that happiness depended on such fragile, changeable things.  She cupped his face in her hand, bending down to press a kiss to his lips.

“I did, John.  I do.  Always.”

She felt his arm wrap around her, pulling her against him as he kissed her again, harder and more insistent than her own kiss. Feeling the heat of his body against hers, she was all too aware of how few layers separated them now.  The thought was surprisingly exhilarating.  She had expected to feel timid, but not this curiosity, still, about what he was hiding underneath his shirt. Pulling back slightly, she slid her hand up the center of his chest between them until her fingers reached the bottom of the opening in the front of his shirt.  John stopped kissing her, concern lining his face.

“I’m sorry, Margaret, . . . I”

“Shh.  Don’t apologize, love.  I just . . . I want . . .

She couldn’t finish, her words swallowed in a gasp as she slipped hand inside his shirt and placed it over his pounding heart.

“John, I . . .” She didn’t know what to say.  The only times her own heart had beat like this, fear had been the cause.  When Mary had summoned her to Betsy’s bedside.  When Frederick had fought with the man at the train station.  “John, there’s no need to be afraid,” she cried.

His brows knit with confusion.  “I’m not,” he insisted.  “I thought, maybe . . .”

“John . . . your heart.  And you’re so . . . warm.”

He corners of his mouth twitched upwards as he wrapped his other arm around her, pulling her on top of him.

“That is not fear, darling,” he purred, gasping lightly as she settled on his lap.  She wiggled again, noticing the way his eyes widened and his jaw went slack.  Going still, she looked down at him for approval.

“Kiss me again?” he pleaded softly.

* * *

By the time Margaret had gotten under the covers, he was already hard and even her chaste kisses and light touches on his chest and shoulders had made his erection throb and ache between his legs.  When he pulled her onto his lap, the pressure of her clothed thighs against his groin had felt so good that he had to bite back a groan, and by the time her curious fingers had found his nipples through the thin shirt, he had started leaking from his slit.  It was all he could bear; pleasure had driven every thought from his mind except how humiliating it would be to finish before she even put her hand on him.

“Margaret, please.  Lower,” he whimpered. His words made him blush darker even, but he could not help it.  She frowned with concentration, sliding off of his lap to lay down next to him.  John cursed himself inwardly. Even if she was comfortable at first, she was properly horrified now.  Would she leave him like this, he thought, panicking. But before he could open his mouth to explain, her hand was on his belly.

“Here, John?” she asked.

Though her hand was far from his erection, the pressure of it dragged the fabric of his nightshirt slowly across the damp tip, making it leak further.

“Ye . . . yes, Margaret,” he panted.  “But . . . a little lower still.”

She nodded, and John braced himself for the feeling of her hand moving closer to where he wanted it.  Instead, she removed it entirely, pulling back the covers and reaching for the bottom hem of his nightshirt.

“Margaret,” he cried in shock. “What are you . . . ?”

“I’m going to touch . . . you.  There,” she answered, eyeing his groin with determination.  John’s heart was beating so fast he feared he might lose consciousness. As Margaret slid her hand up his inner thigh, he began trembling and could not stop even when she removed her hand with a worried look and asked what was wrong.

“It’s fine, darling,” he insisted, taking a deep breath to calm himself.  His erection was so painfully hard that it was difficult to concentrate on anything else, but he understood how worried she was.  He would blame himself too, if he thought he caused her discomfort. “Just . . . don’t touch the very tip of it, please.”

Her brows furrowed at that.

“Too sensitive,” he explained, though a moment later, when she had her hand wrapped around his base, he realized that all of it was too sensitive.  A moan burst from his mouth unbidden and he arched his back as pleasure surged along his spine.  She moved her hand up and down lightly as he writhed, her grip too loose and gentle, but driving him mad all the same. They both gasped as one of her fingers brushed against the delicate strip of skin just below John’s tip, his ending in a high whine and hers in an apology.

“I’m sorry, I . . . I didn’t mean to.” This time, John barely registered her concern.  He was biting his lip, concentrating intently on holding back the orgasm that had threatened to overtake him since the moment she put her hand on him.

As if to compensate, she moved her hand all the way down to his base and lower.  In his little experience with pleasuring himself, John had never considered touching his scrotum, and he sensitive stones it contained.  They ached when his arousal went unsatisfied, and brought great pain if hit, but he never gave them much thought otherwise.  So it was almost as much surprise as pleasure that made him moan loud when she lightly cupped them in her soft hand. He gripped the bedclothes tight in both hands as he jerked, over and over, soaking his nightshirt in spend.  His eyes closed tight, he threw an arm over his face as he relaxed.  Margaret would be horrified; he couldn’t face her yet.

He felt the bed dip when his wife lay down next to him, but was glad she could not see his face.  Within a few minutes though, his eyes opened slowly, his curiosity about her expression too great to bear.

“That was . . . not as I expected,” she admitted in a low, cautious voice.

John’s slowed heartbeat quickened again.  Was she so very disappointed?

“How was it different, love?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even.

By the time she began to rise, propping herself up on her elbow to look at him, his mind was scrambling for excuses: This was just the first time.  I was too excited. I promise that next time will be better.”

“It was, well . . . easier.”

John pressed his lips together thoughtfully; he had no idea how to take that.  Was it a criticism, or just an observation?

His realized that his confusion must have shown when she started to explain.

“I thought it would be more difficult . . . to get the . . . to get the . . . spend out.  I thought it would, be . . . well, a bit like milking a cow.”

John felt his mouth drop open slightly.  “A cow?” he asked, not knowing what else to say.

“Yes,” Margaret began timidly, a faint blush beginning to color her cheeks as well.  “To get the milk out, you have to squeeze the . . . udders.”

“Udders?” he inquired, his eyes widening with confusion.

She looked away, her blush growing darker.  “You have to squeeze them a certain way, not too gently, but not too hard either.  I was . . . never able to master it.  I was never able to get any milk at all . . . John? Is it so very funny, John?”

The worry in his wife’s voice stopped his laughter.  He was trying to imagine what she could be talking about; he had never been close to a live cow in his life, and it was hard to imagine from her description.  But it was clear that her expectations had been so very different from the reality that he could well imagine her surprise.  As hard as he tried to keep a straight face, it was impossible.  Once he realized he could not stop the chuckle rising to his lips, it grew quickly.

“Well, I didn’t know, John!” she cried defensively.  “I had no idea what to . . .”

“I know you didn’t, darling,” he interjected, trying to calm himself.  “I’m not laughing at you . . . I just . . . when have you ever . . . milked a cow?”

She gave a little laugh of her own at that.  “Well, when I was growing up at Helstone, I was always so interested in whatever the servants were doing. There was a dairy farm nearby, and sometimes when father went to visit the farmer he would take me along, and the farmer would let me go into the barn and try to help the dairy maids while father paid his visit. I’m afraid I was never much help, though.”

John smiled at that; it was further evidence that Margaret had always been the inquisitive, caring person she was now.

“Well, you’re very good at this,” he assured her.

Margaret gave him and embarrassed little grin and looked away.  “I didn’t have to do very much.”

He wrapped and arm around her shoulders and gently pulled her down against him again.

“It’s something we’ll both grow accustomed to in time.  I . . . hope it won’t always be so easy.”

“Oh?” she inquired as she nestled against him. He winced as the damp shirt stuck to his belly, but she didn’t seem to notice it. “I don’t mind easy things, John.  Why do you . . . wish for that?”

He frowned at the question.  As much as he preferred curiosity to apprehension—or worse, fear—he didn’t know how to answer. How much could he tell her without overwhelming her on their first night together?

“Well,” he began.  “I need to be able to last longer, because . . . the . . . what comes out of me is . . . necessary, if we are going to have children.” He looked down at Margaret to see how she was taking this in, and saw that she was looking up at him, listening intently.  “But if it . . . happens at the slightest touch, then it probably will not be . . . where it needs to be if it’s to do any good.”

“Inside me?” she questioned.

John had been looking up at the ceiling, too embarrassed by what he was saying to look at her directly, but his eyes snapped to her face at that.

“Why . . . yes.  How did you . . .?”

“I read it,” she answered hastily in a quiet voice.  “Your mother . . . she showed me this book in her parlor.  It was all about . . . well, illness and treatments, but also . . .”

“Was it a thick black book . . . with no writing on the spine?” he asked in the same tone, realization dawning. 

“Yes,” she replied a little more loudly, her eyebrows raising with surprise.  “Did she . . . did she show it to you too?”

He gave a bark of laughter.  “Oh no.  No, I’m certain Mother has no idea I’ve seen that book.  And it is has been a long time.  But . . . yes.  When I was a lad I was . . . I too was curious.”

Margaret’s smile calmed him, turning the shame that had threatened to steal over him at this confession into warmth.

“Did you find it . . . accurate,” he asked falteringly. She didn’t seem confused or distressed, but he needed to know her impressions for his own piece of mind.

She thought in silence for a moment.  “You’re bigger.”

John looked down the foot of the bed, smiling at how far his feet extended blown Margaret’s, though her bend knees, turned towards him, exaggerated the difference.

“Well, I’ve always been taller than average.  My father was a tall man as well.”

His wife shook her head, blushing again.  “No . . . I mean, yes.  You are taller than the man in the picture, but I mean your . . . your penis is bigger.”

John felt his own eyes widen at that.  He was glad Margaret knew something of what to expect, and yet hearing _that_ word fall from her lips was so shocking.

“Well . . . I . . . I’m proportionate,” he stammered.

As she laughed softly in response, she made him gasp again by reaching down between his legs and again and gently cupping him through the nightshirt.

“It’s smaller now,” she observed.

“Well, you’ve exhausted it,” he replied, pressing a kiss to her temple.  “But we can try again in . . . in a little while.”

“How long?”

He smiled at the eagerness in her voice.  None of his apprehensions had come to pass, and he was starting to feel like a bit of a fool for ever doubting her. “I don’t really know, love.  I’ve never . . . this is the first time I’ve . . .”

She smiled sweetly and kissed his lips.  “I know that, darling. There’s no rush.  As I said, from now on.  We have all the time in the world to learn.”


End file.
